CAPTAIN COPENHAGEN

Captain Copenhagen tells the story of Helen and her daughter Leonie. After Leonie is diagnosed with depression at 14 years old, Helen decides that they need to move to the country that has been attributed as one of the happiest in the world, Denmark. Her hope is that she can use the country, culture and everything Danish to “cure” her daughter and make her happy again. Unfortunately, it’s not that simple.

This blog is a work of fiction. It includes comedic episodes from Helen’s perspective as she tries to navigate Danish life, and more subdued episodes from Leonie’s perspective as she tries to navigate her mother.

All episodes can be found at www.captaincopenhagen.co.uk.

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TRIGGER WARNING: Captain Copenhagen explores the topic of mental health.

The Pastry

Leonie, Daughter

Ow.

Headache.

Stomach ache. Painful stomach ache. Hadn’t slept. That was new. 

The usual ache in my chest…different. It was tight. It burned.

I didn’t like it.

I lay still and took some deep breaths. Closed my eyes. Lay still. Realised I had to get up and felt something bubble up to my eyes. I scrunched up my face and swallowed and pushed it down, pushed it all down, took a jagged breath in and out. The numbness returned.

I slowly sat up in bed and felt my eyes drop low into my skull.

I was used to the numbness.

I was at home with the numbness.

I was angry at the numbness.

Today had not started a good day. But I would pretend it had.

As I emerged into the living room mum trotted over to me with something on her phone screen. She had found a place that served traditional Danish pastries and wanted me to try it.

‘Such a wondrous thing to do’, she said, ‘the delicious flaky pastry flaking away every worry and concern you may have with every bite’.

I’m sure that wasn’t how it worked, but I smiled and nodded. Her face lit up. Good.

From now on I was just going to do whatever she wanted me to do. I’ve been selfish. I’ve been an idiot. Mum has enough pain, and I’ve just added to it. My depression hurts her. I need to protect her from it. I’m not going to upset her anymore.

So I had my cry in the bathroom today.

Out of sight, out of mind.

I shouldn’t have let myself get like this in the first place. This is all my fault. 

I stared in the mirror until my eyes weren’t red anymore, turned the smile on and headed out the door.

Mum shouted after me that I should bring a friend.

I brought a friend: I brought my book.

Cafe reached, I decided to selfishly take up a four person table with my pastry and book. I didn’t care about the looks. I wanted the room. I liked the space, I tolerated the stares.

I didn’t want to lie to mum, but I just didn’t have the energy to talk to a “friend”. I just needed some time alone, to turn the smile off. To deflate. To breathe.

Book in hand, pastry in mouth.

It was my break. I wouldn’t let anything spoil it.

Besides, who would I invite? The only person I could think of who I would half consider would be…

‘Leonie?’ A familiar Birmingham accent asked.

Something spoiled it. My private pastry palace had been invaded. The pain in my chest was back. I wanted to cry.

Luke is a nice guy. He looks out for me. He’s kind, but I just can’t…

‘I wasn’t intending to stay,’ he said, ‘but…’

I was tired. So tired it hurt.

‘Can I… maybe… join you? Have mutual pastry time? But only if…’ he asked, he hesitated, true to his typical brand of uncertain politeness, ‘I don’t want to steal one of your special chair friends’. He waited patiently for my response, looking at my three empty seats. Some might interpret what he said as sarcastic, or mocking, but it wasn’t. This was genuinely how he spoke and thought.

As cold as I have become, I couldn’t bring myself to tell him to go away.

He’d been nice to me. He was supportive.

He wanted to be my friend.

And he was persistent about it.

So so persistent.

No words came out. He waited.

I wanted… I wanted him to go away. I wanted to tell him to go away. I’m a horrible person.

But I couldn’t do it.

I used my foot to nudge out a chair as an invitation. Not the seat opposite me. The chair diagonally across. If I had some distance, maybe I could find some energy to talk to him. I want it noted that I did not offer the seat opposite me. I wanted to make this clear.

But I did not make this clear enough.

He reached out for the chair opposite me, in that uncomfortable place where you can’t avoid eye contact. Putting his pastry down on the table. Pulling the chair out with a screech, even that seemed to have a Birmingham accent.

Oh god, why had this happened? I didn’t want to chat. I couldn’t… I couldn’t chat. Please. It hurt.

Just leave me in peace. Book in hand and pastry in mouth. A moment where I could hide from my mum, where I was just allowed to be quiet, and still, and feel whatever I wanted to. And not hurt anyone doing so.

I waited for it. I looked down at my half-eaten pastry and waited for it. For the conversation to start. For me to politely answer his questions, trying to gather any energy I could. Don’t cry. 

I waited.

And waited.

And waited.

But it never came.

I looked up slowly. He sat opposite in solitude, peaceful, enjoying a moment of quiet. Book in hand, pastry in mouth.

I could have cried.

We sat in silence together for an hour and read our own books, ate our own pastries. At the end of which we didn’t even say goodbye. He just tipped a fake hat to me and my ‘chair friends’ and left. He’s so weird.

I’m glad he’s persistent.

I’m glad he’s my friend.

….

It’s now 8.00. Dinner’s been had, we’re sat in front of the TV.

I’m trying really hard to keep my eyes open, my smile up. At least I can just stare.

My phone beeps. Stupid phone. I squirm a little inside. I hate message chatting even more than real chatting. Who is it? What do they want from me?

I can see mum’s face out the corner of my eye. She’s pretending to watch TV but I can see she’s excited that I’ve received a message. She’s desperately trying not to look over.

Fine. I have no choice.

Luke: ‘Thank you for a nice afternoon.’

That’s it.

No conversation started, no request that I’m ok, doesn’t even request a reply.

I’m so relieved. Down it goes. Back on the sofa with you, back to staring for me.

But I pick it up again.

And write a short reply.

‘Thank you too’.

And I pause, and I add.

‘See you soon’.

And manage a genuine smile for the first time in a while.